


Teenage Wasteland

by msmaj



Series: 2019 Songfic Writing Challenge [5]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: But it ends happy, F/M, Motorcycles, Southside Serpent Jughead Jones, angst-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-07 23:09:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20983931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmaj/pseuds/msmaj
Summary: Eighteen means being a Serpent or leaving the nest. Why on Earth would anyone imagine he could make it easy?





	Teenage Wasteland

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back! Hopefully, you enjoy this, it's been in the works for quite some time but came together for this. I owe a lot of that to theheavycrown, not only for her incredible cheerleading and graphics, but for beta-ing the hell out of this and making it cohesive. You're the best, for reals.
> 
> (Hey look, I got the header to work!)
> 
> Song 5- A song that needs to be played loud- Baba O'Riley-The Who

_ _

_The exodus is here_

_ The happy ones are near _

_ Let's get together, before we get much older _

_ Teenage wasteland _

_ It's only teenage wasteland _

**Baba O’Riley- The Who**

  


Jughead Jones watches as the sun rises over the Sunnyside Trailer park. It’s obnoxiously loud for six am, but considering what the day is to hold, he can hardly blame its inhabitants for their excitement. The smoke from his cigarette rises above his head and sticks, haloing him in the early morning haze. It looks like it’s going to be another miserably humid day, the lack of clouds in the morning sky seems to be an unfortunate indication that the heat is going to be unbearable as well. He sighs heavily, snuffing his cigarette butt out on the deck before flicking it into the empty coffee can. Pulling his knees to his chest, he folds his arms around his legs and watches the hubbub of activity flit through the park.

Today is “The Roll”, Riverdale’s newly minted bike rally; the town council and mayor’s attempt at unifying the North and South Sides. Supposedly people were coming from all over to ride in today’s opening parade, some thousand bikes he thought he’d overheard. He knew, without a doubt, that the majority of Riverdale proper was, at the very least displeased by the joint venture. However, the prominence of biker culture in the Southside made even the toughest of Serpents giddy at the thought of rolling though Riverdale Square, invited, and embraced by like-minded people. Jughead had heard his father, FP, and his pseudo-uncles Mack and Terry practically squealing when they announced that the “Roll on Riverdale” was a go this year, and now they were all out, polishing their bikes in preparation for the parade.

There’s a part of Jughead that’s excited too. His bike is finally operational. The years of blood, sweat and copious amounts of hard-earned cash saw his grandfather’s 1950 Vincent Black Lightning roar to life. He’s man enough, in the confines of his own mind, to admit that he may have cried when he’d put the final cap on his fully restored beauty and the engine purred to life under his touch. He’s damn proud of his bike, and he is damn proud to ride her today. A smile pulls at the corner of his lips as he hears laughter bubble up across the park, men hooting and hollering as their wives bring out trays of breakfast foods. Jughead likens it to a pre-war feast. The majority of the Serpents, and their of age children, will be riding in the parade—right into the very heart of the community that condemns them.

Before he gets too lost in the social mores that threaten to loop around his head, the front door swings open to reveal his sister, JB, already dressed for the ride.

“Juuuuggg, come on! We’ve only got four hours before this thing starts!”

“Only four?” His head shakes as he laughs, patting the space next to him for her to come and sit. “Have you ever seen it like this, Jelly?”

Her eyes narrow at him and he can’t help the smirk that forms. “Nope. Well, it’s kind of like Christmas, minus the cold.”

“It’s better than Christmas,” Jughead mumbles under his breath. He knows the circumstances that most of the families endure to give their children any semblance of Christmas, and this, well it carries none of that weight or shame. This is jubilation. Riverdale is finally putting itself in a position to see all that comes out of the Southside; even if they only ever still see it as bad, Jughead hopes that maybe if all things go really well than their communities can actually come together. Rather than just seeing blight and criminals, maybe the North can recognize the humanity that lies on the other side of the tracks. 

“I’m going to record it all! Ms. Hammill gave me her GoPro; I’m gonna tape it to my helmet so I can film everything as we’re riding.”

“Oh, so you’ve finally decided to listen to me and wear a helmet?”

“You told me I had to or I couldn’t ride with you!”

He chuckles. “That is absolutely right, Jellybean. You’re not going anywhere near a bike, ever, without a helmet. Capiche?”

“Yeah, sure, until I’m seventeen and way too cool like you. I don’t see why dad’s not on your ass about it.”

“I always wear my helmet, kid. Except for today. Considering we can’t go over twenty on the route,” he picks his head up and looks in the direction of the now fully risen sun. “Besides, it’s going to be nine-hundred degrees today. My leather jacket plus that ridiculous helmet Uncle Mack gave me is a recipe for heatstroke, which I would much rather not suffer at all, thanks. So, helmetless, at the advice of our father and other seasoned riders, but only for today.” He wags his finger in her face emphatically.

Jughead watches his sister roll her eyes before playfully punching him in the shoulder. “I’m gonna go get some food from Aunt Bea, you want?”

Before the sarcastic response can form on his tongue she’s up, muttering, “Of course you want food, what a silly question, JB…” before dashing off across the yards.

He sighs again. The humidity is definitely growing, and while it hangs heavy it doesn’t necessarily feel oppressive. And for some reason, that’s as strange an omen as Jughead Jones can imagine. He stands from the deck, cracks his neck, and walks back through the door. 

Something will definitely change in Riverdale today. If you would have asked Jughead at that moment, or any of the ones that preceded it, if he thought he’d come out of today the most changed he’d have laughed in your face. The fates, however, seem to have something else in store for him.

* * *

Jughead is unnerved. Something about the too-bright sun juxtaposed on a cloudless, cerulean sky. Or that the breeze always seems to come exactly when he is feeling just a tad uncomfortable. There are no perfect days, not on the Southside, not anywhere. And yet this day seems picturesque. He asked his dad to take Jellybean to the parade route, told him he’d meet them there and rode off astride his Lightning toward the open road. 

Only the road isn’t open. Bikes litter every establishment's parking lot and clog the streets, forcing Jughead out toward the lesser-traveled backroads that his Vincent doesn’t always handle well on.

But there are no nerves. Just the power of the bike and the confidence in his ministrations, and his path stays true. He shakes his head quickly, trying to disseminate what exactly is making him feel so…

In reality, he knows exactly what’s eating away at him. Instead of letting it occupy his mind he puts his foot on the gas, letting the wind whip through his hair, beanie tucked securely in his breast pocket. The roads amble further and further from the Southside, trees coming to line the roadside rather than telephone poles and streetlights. As he makes his way toward Sweetwater River, the grayscale of the dour life he’s lived is traded for the verdant, lush green that he has never really appreciated before now.

The nearer he gets to the rally point the more his anxiety rises. It’s all just too strange, too surreal, with the streets outside of the ever-peppy and pristine Riverdale convoluted with motorcycles of all makes and models. Still, he manages to spot FP and Gladys right away. A large huff of air heaves past his lips as he sidles up next to his father. There’s still an hour or so before the parade should technically start, for which he’s extremely grateful, as he wrestles to get his mind under control. He watches Jellybean running around trying to get as much of it on film before they start; he envies her enthusiasm. 

Riverdale has never cared for them, for him. They never worried about the schools’ funding on the Southside, or whether the roads warranted repair (which they all did), or if selling the drive-in to the highest bidder would be the nail in the coffin. And clearly it wasn’t to his neighbors, but to Jughead Jones it was everything. They’d severed the last tie to his childhood, stolen from him the very notion of hope and with that, he’d written them out of his narrative.

Yet, here he sits. His father and mother to his left, Mack and Terry behind them, Serpent emblems littering the stretch. Jughead straddles his bike somewhere in the middle of the pack, hundreds of bikes stretched out before and behind him. Though he feels like they’ve been there for hours already, the bikes kept ambling in, filling the road that runs parallel to the river. The parade is meant to follow Sweetwater’s meandering path before veering off onto the bunting-lined streets that lead into the very heart of Riverdale. 

“You nervous, kid?” His father’s voice carries over the bikes as Jughead sweeps his eyes back from the vista before him.

“Should I be? It’s not like I’ve never ridden before.”

FP huffs a laugh and shakes his head slowly. “It’s just a big step for us.”

“What? Rolling into Riverdale?” Jughead scoffs.

His father’s lip turns up slightly, settling into a softer smile than Jughead expects. “I know it’s not that big a deal to you, but to us old-timers…being invited—hell, celebrated, by this town—well, it’s a day I never thought I’d see.” Jughead nods. He knows the divide between the two halves of the town threatens to swallow them whole. And not just in some off-hand ‘grand-scheme-of-things’ way, but in the very literal his family was on a precipice kind of way, and he can’t help the resentment that toils inside him.

His father has been home less and less. Jobs varying in nature and pay-scale take priority over actually spending time with his family. Legitimate work on the Southside is almost non-existent, most of the gainful employment going to the younger generations in a never-ending battle against the wheel that pins them down.

On the Southside, and in Riverdale alike, you are a pawn. Be it above-board or not, your employ depends on one of two men and whatever stratagem they decide to launch against the other that week. The Northsiders don’t see it like that, of course. It’s _ business. _ Jughead grew up knowing that on the Southside they’ve always been seen as less…less clean; less important; less human. He’s managed to avoid Riverdale proper, lest he get sucked into its idealized Americana suburban bullshit, and tries to thrive in its periphery. The Serpent logo emblazoned on his back was a not-so-subtle constant reminder of where he’s supposed to belong, the other was the 998cc V-twin engine between his thighs.

His bike, the physical embodiment of his work, has garnered more attention than he was ready for. Jughead’s enough of an enthusiast to understand there’d be interest in his bike, but he’s fended off more than a few ludicrous offers and the rally hasn’t even officially started. There were few bikes as old as his, but none that could compare to the detail he’d refurbished his with. 

Aside from his name, which he is loathe to admit, it’s the only tangible bit of the legacy left to him by his grandfather. Forsythe the First was one of the founding members of a Motorcycle Club that ended up being absorbed by the Serpents. It’s one of the reasons he’s always felt so obligated to stay with them, even if he’s always had so much more that he wants to do with his life.

“Jug! Jug!” His eyes flick to his breathless sister who is climbing onto the back of his bike before he can register the garbled words coming from her mouth. But with the revving of engines and plumes of exhaust kicking up in front of him, he knows. It’s time

FP waggles his brows excitedly as he takes off, Gladys whooping behind him as her bike roars to life. Jellybean giggles in his ear, her grip tightening on his waist as they begin their ride toward town.

The streets are lined with adulating townsfolk, waving their flags and cheering as the bikes descend on them. Families, Jughead notes, are out in droves, all smiles and welcome posturing. He fights the urge to roll his eyes on more than one occasion at the suburbanites’ inability to cope with the noise of the parade. He can’t help if his engine revs when he recognizes the discomforted looks of the parade-goers. His father, still at his side, gives him a hard look when he catches on, but Jughead notices the twinkle in his eye and the way his mouth curls into a smirk. Jughead can feel his doing the same as they get closer to Riverdale.

“Uh oh,” he hears Jelly huff as he slows down. The parade bottlenecks just short of Picken’s Park. 

They’re so close. Ride through the square, exalt, and go home. Jughead’s feet hit the ground as they come to a stop, his head lolling back for a second before he finds focus.

On his left he sees a flash, something glinting in the sun catches his eye. A golden halo hidden behind the long lens of an older model Canon. The camera dips, revealing the most luminescent eyes he’s ever seen. He can feel his breath hitch.

When their eyes meet he feels it at his very core. She looks ethereal, backlit by the mid-day sun, breeze blowing the ends of her ponytail away from her lithe frame as the camera held between her slender fingers moves further down her form. His jaw drops as he watches her lower lip slide between her teeth.

“Jug, let’s go!” He snaps forward as Jellybean hits his shoulder, urging him back into the crowd. Shaken from his reverie, he dares another glance back toward the blonde beauty but he’s lost her in the crowd. Huffing disappointedly, he lets go of the throttle and catches up with his dad and neighbors, a true smile forms on his face for the first time that day.

Suddenly, Jughead feels far more interested to see what else Riverdale has in store for him.

* * *

The sun roasts Pickens Park, just as Jughead predicted it would, but it surprises him that he doesn’t hate it as much as he thought he would. That doesn’t mean it’s in every way good, but, as he moseys through the vendor tents, filling himself with various fried delights, he can’t help but be on the lookout for that flash of blonde hair again. He thinks maybe he’d seen the same golden hue by one of the tents but when he got closer, it was gone, swallowed into an unlikely sea of seersucker and leather.

The crowd is denser than he expected. H hadn’t anticipated the Northsiders being interested in wandering too far into the depths of the bike fest; again, he’s proven wrong. The throngs of onlookers that lined the parade route have made their way to Picken’s Park. Crisply dressed families holding perfectly manicured hands descend from suburbia as Southsiders flow in with the rank and file to the center of Riverdale.

On top of everything else, everyone seems to be getting along. It’s pleasantly surprising. 

After parking his bike with the other Serpents, he backs out of watching the stunt bikes with Joaquin and Sweet Pea, opting to chase Jellybean around as she continues to capture the day’s events for posterity. His father had been talking to an older gentleman when he walked away, something about restorations, though it could have very well been restitution.

Today, he doesn’t have the heart for it. He watches Jellybean weave through the crowd, running straight for her friends, effectively forgetting he is even there.

Sighing, Jughead takes the slightly crushed pack of Marlboro’s from his breast pocket, along with his beanie, holding them for a long moment before stuffing a cigarette in his mouth and the beanie on his head before skulking off. He catches sight of few more junior serpents, but manages to stay in their periphery and melt back into the masses.

It’s not that he doesn’t like them. They’ve all grown up together and were currently in high school, but that’s pretty much where the similarities ended. While the Northside kids were presumably spoon-fed limitless ambition and encouragement from infancy, Southside kids didn’t always fare so well. It wasn’t that parents on the Southside loved their kids less, or had less grandiose aspirations for them, it’s just that sometimes things like food and heat outweighed singing lessons or money for the book fair. 

And that’s where the Serpents came in. Short on rent? Give us a hand with this _ thing _and we’ll help you out, stay if you’re afraid it’ll happen again. They all stayed; they never left. Then the cycle would start all over. Their kids need jobs to help the family get by or ward off disciplinary action from some business owner that the bored, latch-key kids may, or may not have egged. 

By fourteen, most Southside kids were employed by legitimate Serpent owned businesses before they decided whether or not they wanted to transition into the gang as a fully-fledged member. 

That’s the limbo Jughead Jones finds himself in. At seventeen, he’s already been too long a man. He wants the camaraderie of the Serpents, the brotherhood of men who uplift one another and hold themselves to a higher standard, not the backsliding, hoodlumesque gang-banging he saw so prevalent at school the previous year. His entire existence hinged on this dichotomy: a quasi-normal home life, much more stable and happy than he’d had for most of his formative years and the knowledge that when his father wasn’t home, he was actually leading a gang through their less than savory endeavors. 

Eighteen means making a decision. Does he stay with the gang? The one who afforded him the opportunity, the skills, the means to repair his bike. The gang who insured food was on the table when their dad was in the skids. The gang who still made sure his dad didn’t fall off the wagon, or if he did, picked him up and set him back on his feet.

Or does he follow HIS dreams? Go to college, or hell, just get out of Riverdale. (Preferably without attachment to a regiment.) He’s never wanted to stay. He dreams of winding coastlines and leatherbound journals; of leaves on trees he’s never seen in person and stars in skies that look like his but are worlds away.

He’s felt this weight (guilt, shame, fear, hope) building for longer now than he’d like to admit. He’s never had any intention of staying, no plan to fall deeper into a pit he can’t get out of. 

Jughead doesn’t realize that he’s walked the entirety of Picken’s Park already until he’s faced, again, with those he’d been trying to avoid.

“Jones!” As much as he’d rather turn back into the crowd, he’s been spotted. With a grimace, he makes his way over to where they, who were once his friends, are sitting. 

“Toni. Fangs. Harbingers of Doom,” he greets dourly. Fangs rolls his eyes as Toni’s narrow on him, their lackeys looking ready to say something more before he holds up a halting hand. 

“Jugs,” comes Toni’s clipped voice. “Wasn’t sure you’d be riding with the pack today, considering you don’t actually want to be one of us.”

Jughead stretches his neck slowly before he speaks, rubbing a wary hand across the back. “No, Toni, I don’t want to be one of you.”

“C’mon, Jug,” Fangs tries. He would give him that, Fangs always tried. “We all used to be so close, but with Joaquin going to school in Ohio in a few weeks, and you and Pea deciding you’re too good for us…”

“No. Pea decided, for himself, that he wasn’t cut out for this life. I am, as of yet, undecided.”

Scoffing, Toni flings long pink hair over her shoulder before fixing an appraising eye on Jughead. “Undecided? My ass you’re undecided, Jonesy. You made your choice loud and clear last year when you decided to skip the after prom festivities…”

“Is that what this is about?” Jughead nearly chokes on his laugh. “Sorry Tones, you just don’t do it for me, and I know I lack certain anatomical features to do it for you. So, sorry not sorry if I ruined whatever ‘well-laid’ plans you two had in the works.”

“Please, don’t flatter yourself, Jones. We only wanted you to ride with us for your clout; we more than make up for our size and age with our ability to get shit done.”

Toni and Fangs smile at their new protege, Trula, while Jughead is the one whose eyes roll this time. “Oh. Okay. That’s why you’re still blowing me up after I turned you down, more than once. You too, Tone, it’s kind of sad,” he throws a smirk their way and turns back towards the still gathering crowd. Pausing, before they have a second to gather their wits, he twists back with a slick smile on his face. “And for the record, no one thinks you ‘get shit done’, you’re just effective fodder that keeps coming back for more. Enjoy your day kids, who knows: the next time you’re thrown to the wolves may be your last. Only cats have nine lives, not snakes.”

It’s not like walking away from friends he’s had since diapers is his idea of a good time. He just knows his commitment to the Serpents will never run as deep as that of the small group who are undoubtedly boring holes into the back of his jacket. Which, he starts to realize, may not be as hard to give up than he once thought.

It’s strange. Only a few hours have passed since he warily started this trek into Riverdale, no expectations for the day aside from possible heat stroke and a stomach ache. Instead, he’s had too much time to think in between the stark juxtaposition of doctors and their wives wearing brand-new, bedazzled Harley Davidson gear and the worn leathers of the Southside riders. 

But no one is fighting. There’s laughter that rings over the peals of the bikes; a Skid Row cover band is playing in the gazebo and the entire crowd, from true-blue biker to the toddling twins dancing in the back, is into it. It’s not Northside versus Southside; it’s not rich versus poor; it’s simply people with shared interests having a good time.

If he really thinks about it, that’s all he wants. He doesn’t want Damocles’ sword hanging above his head with words like “birthright” and “king”; he wants to make his own name for himself instead of being a literal continuation of his father. He wants a chance to enjoy things in life without conditions.

_ Fuck it _, he mutters to no one and with intent, sets off to find the owner of the elusive, blonde ponytail.

* * *

It is much too hot. After walking around for close to four hours, Jughead decides that today might not be his day after all. He’s seen exactly one blonde ponytail, and it was not attached to the same girl he’d seen on the ride in. 

Defeated, he pulls the beanie from his head and runs long fingers through his dark chestnut hair, breaking up the curls that cling to his sweaty brow. 

_ There’s always tomorrow, _he thinks morosely. He’d said one day. He’d come for one day, and now, because he and some girl shared a moment—through the lens of her camera no less—he was planning on returning in the morning.

A fresh Marlboro between his fingers and beanie placed firmly back on his head, he turns toward his bike and home.

“Hey!” He hears a voice shouting. “Yo! Dude!”

Jughead turns and finds himself face to face with a redhead in a Bulldogs varsity jacket.

“Can I help you?” Jughead asks, his voiced colored with a hint of annoyance as he slowly takes a drag off his cigarette.

“Maybe,” the jock replies looking him up and down. “Can you tell me who rides a...uh…” he pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket, “...a 1950 Victor that looks like it’s been restored by God’s own hand?”

Jughead tries, and fails, to bite back a smirk. “I could.”

“Listen man, I’m asking for a friend. They’re writing an article about the best bikes and I got tasked with finding this one. Can you help me or not?”

“Your friend wants to write an article about my bike?” Jughead can’t help the incredulity that seeps into his question.

“Your bike?! Sweet! Listen...” the ginger pulls his phone out. “Shit, it’s too late now. Can you stop back in the morning, around nine? Pop’s Mobile Shake Shack. Tell ‘em Archie sent you,” the redhead was already calling back over his shoulder as he ran through the crowd. 

Weird. 

Weirder still...he plans on being there. If nothing else, well, how can anyone argue with breakfast milkshakes? 

* * *

It’s five minutes after nine. The sun, though not yet sweltering, still feels hot for it being this early. He’s surprised by how many people are already up and roaming the grounds, enjoying the out of town food trucks as he is. 

He’s currently in the middle of a delightful cajun style breakfast burrito complemented by one of Pop’s coffee milkshakes. Jughead’s always been the type to eat his feelings (and his metabolism seems to allow him to do so, so why kick a gift horse in the mouth. Do what you love and all that) and that’s pretty much all he’s done since meeting the red-haired boy. One text was enough to bring that slight high he was feeling right back down to impending doom. Apparently, his run-in with Toni and Fangs had made it back to the senior members. And they were not happy. 

According to them, Jughead’s hemming and hawing hadn’t gone unnoticed by the upper echelon, but—as FPs son—he was given a wider berth in regards to how he handled this decision. When you’re the Serpent heir, it’s expected that you’ll not only join but assert yourself leader ipso facto. The idea that he was even considering walking away entirely rubbed a lot of them the wrong way. 

_ “Birthrights are birthrights for a reason, boy. You were made for this; only this,” _is what one pseudo uncle told him only an hour ago. A man who has known him the entirety of his life. A lifer himself with no higher aspirations, no desires greater than that of the gang. He thinks that all Jughead is good for in life is leading the pursuits of these people, this gang he still hasn’t truly taken an active role in. He’s an enforcer, a menacing intimidation, on occasion he’s procured a package or two. Having had the luxury of time after the encounter with his father he realized his largest foray into the illegal was working with car parts of questionable origin. But. He didn’t actually think of that whilst being berated and belittled.

While it was increasingly on his mind, he plans on walking that ever-shortening tightrope for as long as he possibly can. It isn’t that he hates the prospect of staying in the Serpents, he could be a lifer too if he thought anything would ever change. But the fact that the gang life, and life on the Southside, in general, seems to stagnate after eighteen, well, that’s just not him.

Jughead has always seen himself as capable of something more, at least he wants to be. He doesn’t want his future self, or his future spouse, to have to tell their children—with a fake, painted smile— that there aren’t going to be any birthday parties this year, or that they have to be out of their home in thirty days. 

Groaning to himself, Jughead indulges in another deep drag of his milkshake. The coffee is deep and rich on his tongue before his brain registers the cold. The shake hits the ground as his hands came up to massage his temples, a fool's attempt at alleviating his brain freeze.

“Hey Pop,” he hears, eyes pinched tight as the last of the pain subsides. “Did Archie happen to send anyone by?” 

Jughead’s eyes shoot up, trying to focus on the figure moving toward him. She’s jogging, mere feet away, awash in the golden glow of morning, unmistakable honey-hued ponytail bouncing behind her. He takes in her features, clearly, for the first time. She’s in cut-off overalls that seem to be tailored just for her, coupled with what—gods help him—looks like a crop top, but the bandana tied off in the front draws his gaze to her face. Her eyes remind him of the Earth, blues and greens and golds melting together as if an endlessly deep pool; he could drown in them and die happily. “It’s you,” his voice is a hoarse whisper he barely recognizes as his own. 

She stops, releasing her lower lip from between her teeth, a soft smile blooming on her face instead. “I can’t believe Archie found you! I’m Betty.” Her hand extends forward and hovers in the air before him for just a second before he catches it with his. 

“Jughead Jones,” he knows he’s grinning idiotically but he can’t find it in himself to care. He instantly misses the warmth of her hand as it falls from his grasp. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

Betty’s head shakes, nose crinkling as she questions, “What’s me?”

“The writer. Right? That Archie guy said something about an article…” 

She nods as a soundless laugh pushes past her lips. “Yes—the article—that’s why I wanted to find you!” Her head falls to the side, ponytail brushing across the strap of her overalls, “That’s a pretty spectacular bike you’ve got there, Jughead.”

He really likes hearing his name come out of her mouth. “I do recall hearing something to the effect of ‘restored by God's own hand’. I liked that.”

Betty groans. “He actually said those words?” 

“Actually pulled out a piece of paper and read it. That’s some dedication to the cause. He your boyfriend?” Jughead bends down to pick up the milkshake he’s knocked over and tosses it in the garbage before striding toward her with as much casual affectation as he can muster.

“Oh, no. Archie’s...he’s not my boyfriend. Just a friend...who’s a boy, but not, like...” 

Jughead cannot, nor does he really want to, fight the smile that takes over his face. “Good to know.”

He isn’t sure if it’s a trick of the light that causes her skin to deepen to that shade of pink, or if it was his words, but he makes it his mission to see if he can get her skin that shade without the aid of natural sunlight.

“So…” Betty effectively interrupts his thoughts from slipping into the lascivious, causing his cheeks to burn in the slightest. “I know this is presumptuous, but I was really hoping I’d be able to interview you for the Riverdale Register. I’d really like to get some stationary shots of your bike as well as ask you a few hundred questions.” 

“That is beyond presumptuous,” he jokingly intones. There’s a sharp inhale as his abused, maroon Doc Martens stop just shy of her powder blue Keds. Jughead cocks his head as he pretends to mull over whether or not he’ll be a part of her story. Of course he will. But watching her nervously chew her bottom lip and clasp her hands in front of her in a silent plea to win him over, well, he thinks he could get used to being at the mercy of that particular gaze. 

“Pleaaase?” She all but squeaks out and he’s absolute putty. 

He shifts closer, his boot lightly scuffing against the toe of her pristine sneakers. 

“Fine, but don’t think for a second I’m doing this for free. Tit for tat, Betty,” his voice drawls in a husky timbre. He knows it’s risky, going this hard this early but he’s utterly bewitched. She, the physical embodiment of all his fantasies, is literally standing before him. As much as he knows he’ll do anything she asks of him, she doesn’t just yet. But by the way her eyes darken as she appraises him, he’s not too worried about how long that will take to find out. “I'm going to need another one of those milkshakes.”

“Is that all? You want a milkshake?” she coos demurely. 

Jughead nudges her shoe again. “I didn’t say that was all I wanted. There are funnel cakes and corn dogs and candy apples; to quote Templeton: it is a veritable smorgasbord.” 

Her laughter, and proximity, sends a shiver up his spine. “I’m kind of disappointed you didn’t sing that. You have earned yourself brownie points for casually throwing some ‘Charlotte’s Web’ into the conversation though.”

He pulls a hand up to his chin and crosses the other over his chest as if considering, “I suppose brownies are acceptable, too.” The way her laughter seems to float around him, blocking the noise of the growing crowd and shrouding him in warmth, is the very last thing he expected when he begrudgingly attended the Roll on Riverdale.

In his mind, the sweltering days of summer play out before him: she’s laughing at his corny jokes and pressing up against him as they ride his bike right out of Riverdale. This is very decidedly not him. He doesn’t _ crush _. He’s not what you would call a ladies man by any stretch of the imagination, and he’s definitely not into fuck around games, but he’s been around a time or two. And it’s never been like this. Nothing has. This instantaneous draw; the inability to turn away coupled with a desperate desire to know how she tastes. 

“But maybe,” he pauses, taking everything in, how she smells (impossibly soft in the midst of hundreds of bikes), the way her tongue darts out to wet already glossed lips. “Maybe I’d like to get to know the girl who knew the make and model of my bike after seeing it for all of a minute. Especially since she wasn’t really even looking at _ it _.” 

“Oh,” she all but breathes out. This time the color that tints Betty’s cheeks was undoubtedly his doing. Obviously flustered, she swallows, tightens her ponytail, and tries again. “If you have time today, we can get this out of the way and you can get back to…”

“I’m all yours, Betty.”

* * *

“So, what’s this article for?”

She picks at the soft pretzel she’s been holding for the duration of their walk, bringing the small bite to her mouth before carefully saying. “The Register.”

“The what now?” Jughead stops, adjusts the beanie on his head and runs an exaggerated hand down his face. “Look, Betty…_ Cooper _! Fuck! You’re a Cooper!? How did I miss that?” (it might have had something to do with the fact that she had a crop top on under her overalls and his neanderthal brain latched onto that for a second longer than was healthy), “...maybe this isn’t the best idea.”

She looks almost crestfallen before her eyes drop. “I didn’t say I was a Cooper. For this very reason. I know what my parents are like, and what they write, but I’m not! I’d be writing this for the Blue and Gold if school were in session. I’ll probably re-run it in that if it’s any consolation. The Register isn’t the ideal choice for me either, but it’s a hell of a lot more exposure than the highschool newspaper.” 

He knows what that’s like. Trying to reach an ever-shrinking audience through a nearly dead medium, even if the Southside High’s Red and Black did have a pretty good online presence. Thanks to Fangs. It’s the first time he’s thought of the paper this summer, too preoccupied with his ending adolescence and what he always assumed would be his imminent interment with the Serpents. Now both of those things are up in the air. He’s no closer to knowing what he wants to do than yesterday. And somehow, the daughter of the two people who seem to revile the Southside most is standing in front of him with a level of enthusiasm he reserves for only the most ostentatious buffets. _ She _ sought him out, knowing what the symbol on his back meant, and thought that _his_ bike was worth it.

“If you don’t want to do the interview, that’s fine. I won’t push you. But I _ did _ buy you another milkshake, and I think that entitles me to at least a few more pictures of the _ Black Lightning.” _

His head snaps back up. There’s this pull to her he’s not sure he can, or wants to, fight. Familial allegiance be damned. For the first time in his life, Jughead’s putting himself before the pack and going after exactly what he wants. She’s smart, gorgeous, funny in a way that seems effortless and natural, and just happens to come wrapped up prettily in a blue bandana. “Color me perpetually impressed, Cooper. Alright, let’s go get your pictures. But we’re not staying here for the interview, I’ve had more than enough forced human interaction for one day.”

“I thought you wanted to eat your way through the interview?” He can tell she’s fighting a smile when she stops to throw what’s left of the massacred pretzel in the trash. She looks back a him, painfully pastel and almost shy, but she’s leaning toward him with the most wicked glint in her eyes and he’s done. 

“Oh, that hasn’t changed. Just the venue...and maybe the menu.” He winks as he steps away, setting off again for his bike. He hears her exhale sharply before jogging to catch up to him.

They talk shop for the rest of the walk. In the short time he’s known her, he’s become sure of two things: first, she knows what she’s talking about. Her knowledge of combustion engines in damn near encyclopedic, be it classic bikes or classic cars, she’s a greasemonkey through and through. That in itself would have been enough to catch his attention. But the second, and most obvious thing is that she is arguably the prettiest human he’s ever laid eyes on. 

Jughead isn’t sure what’s gotten into him. Watching her photograph his bike becomes a silent meditation on masochism, it’s the most exquisite torture he could have ever hoped to experience. She’s thorough, dangerously so, taking pictures from every angle to ensure that all of his meticulous detail is properly represented. 

That’s what she says anyway. He’s sure it has something to do with him meeting an early end. Each photo ensures another inch of skin exposed, the bottoms of her overalls having ridden up so much that the peachy flesh taunts and teases him with just how delectable it looks. He wonders how one person can be so unassumingly sexy and adorable at once. 

It’s just then that she chooses to look at him, left arm reaching across his bike for the handlebar. Slowly, as if her goal in life is to make him combust, she straddles the machine and rocks herself into a seemingly more comfortable position. 

The sun is fully behind her, bursting and glowing as the camera sits at her ample chest which his eyes can’t seem to look away from. She is, beyond words. Beckoning him with a single finger he—a complete lost cause— moves with purposeful strides to stand before her. He leans in close covering the hand closest to him with his own. They both watch as their fingers twine together around the grip, the feel of her skin beneath his own is electric. “Can I take you somewhere?” his voice sounds deeper to his own ears. He’s nervous, but how can one not be when their veritable dream girl has literally got 182 horsepower between her thighs.

She smiles, the tops of her lips straining toward her ears, and he thinks he could live off the buoyancy that look evokes for the rest of his days. “Anywhere.”

* * *

The ride to the quarry wasn’t nearly long enough. He couldn’t get enough of the way Betty had wrapped her arms around his body, teasing fingers over his stomach and clinging tightly to his chest. Or maybe it was too long. Either way, his fingers itch to touch her as he slows the bike to a stop. She dismounts before he gets the chance, taking a few steps out of his reach to look at their surroundings. He leans against the bike watching her take it all in. It’s usually quiet, but especially so in mid-morning, when the only sounds that break through the forest canopy are the ones that come from within: bird calls, the rustle of the wind through the leaves, and, somewhere off in the distance, the river rapids crashing on the bluffs below their feet. 

But all he can hear is his heart pounding in his ears. 

Betty looks as caught up in the magic of the quarry as he feels. The smile on her face is soft and delicate as she weaves through the trees and makes her way to the cliff’s edge. Slowly, she turns back to face him, that damn bottom lip worrying between her teeth. 

He pushes off the bike and strides toward her. The sun's rays look like spotlights as they filter through the treetops, illuminating his path to her. (As if after seeing her he’ll ever be able to walk any other way than but to her.)

“I gotta give it to you, Jones, this is one hell of a view. Certainly sets a tone. Of course, if you brought me here to try and scare me into convincing my parents to stop trashing the Serpents you should know that one, they don’t listen to me. They don’t listen to anyone for that matter, but least of all me. And two,” she steps into his space, gingerly fingering the leather lapels of his jacket. “I don’t scare easy.”

He suppresses the urge to growl; it feels stuck in his throat when he speaks anyway. “Good to know.”

Her eyes are shining, the kind of luminous he could easily get lost in. Just an inch or two more, hell a stiff breeze would force their lips together and he’s sure when that happens, life as he knows it will end. Jughead wants nothing more than to kiss her. To feel her legs wrap around his waist as he carries her back to his bike, to lay her out on the modified seat and hear that pretty voice scream out his name 

Instead, he steps back, letting her hands fall away from where they still toyed with the zipper of his jacket. “Betty,” she looks confused as her eyes find his. “You’re the one who wanted to _ interview _me. If that was a euphemism, I’m sorry. I’m not that kind of boy.”

“Oh no, Jughead. I _ do _ want to interview you. I’d really like to take your...get your take on party politics and how they only ever seem to hurt the disenfranchised, rather than help them.” She bats long lashes at him, stepping around where he’s rooted to the spot and heads back into the woods. 

He finds her under a large oak tree, resting her back against the trunk as she produces a small moleskin notebook and pen he has no idea where she could have had on her. She motions for him to sit, so he does, finding a tree of his own to get comfortable against.

“Tell me about your bike, Jughead.”

They talk for hours, neither really noticing the time passing them by because they’re so caught up in one another. He tells her all about the Vincent, how it came to be his, how much of him he’s put into it, and exactly what that’s cost him. 

He doesn’t mince his words or hide the gory details, with Betty, all the thoughts and fears that have been plaguing his mind fall from his lips without hesitation or restraint. How yesterday morning he was sure that riding his motorcycle through Riverdale wouldn’t change a thing, that at the end of the day he would still have to go back home and wonder how long his dad would be gone this time, or his mom; if he’d be parenting Jellybean while trying to juggle school and the garage and whatever misdemeanors the Serpents enlist him for that week.

She listens intently, jotting notes about his bike, his life, things he’s never said out loud to anyone. When she asks what _he_ wants out of his life, he knows right then and there that no matter what path he chooses, he wants her. She doesn’t look through him so much as see him. Not the Serpent heir apparent, not some delinquent from the Southside, but the real and true Jughead Jones. The one that hides beneath the layers of flannel and self-deprecating sarcasm. The one that desperately needed to be seen before he was lost to the relentless tide of MC life. 

“You seem academically inclined enough,” she muses after discussing college. “Why don’t you go for the scholarship?”

“That’s pretty vague there: _ the scholarship _. Of course, I’ll go for it,” he sits straighter, pulling his legs up and crossing his them at the ankles, arms slung loosely around akimbo knees. “I’m sure scholarship opportunities are available left and right on the Northside, but not in my world. If you can’t find it on your own, well, you’re fucked. Southside High isn’t known for its excellent staffing.”

Now she looks exceptionally confused. Making her way before him she crouches down so they’re back on the same level. “You know the Roll is a charity event right?”

He nods. “And?”

“Wow, you really wanted nothing to do with the Roll, did you?” Her laugh is mirthless as her hand moves to his knee. “I’m not surprised really. It wasn’t officially announced until the last minute and no one ever seems to pay attention to the small details.”

Jughead clears his throat. “Is this diatribe leading to something or…”

“Jug, the proceeds from the Roll are being set up as a scholarship fund. Some deserving Southside High senior stands to receive state school tuition for at least a few years. But even just talking to you this short time I can tell that no matter what you do, you’ll make it. I know Riverdale seems like sunshine and rainbows north of the tracks, but it’s not. No matter what side you’re on, it’s a teenage wasteland.”

He wonders if she knows that he sees her too. 

His hands fall from his knees, one making its way to push a nonexistent strand of hair behind her ear. He just wants to—needs to—touch her. She doesn’t seem to mind, she leans in as his thumb swipes over her cheekbone. They’re so close, her hands moving from his knee to his chest as she fists the leather gathered between them, breath hot on his neck. He slips his other hand around her waist, large palm splayed against the small of her back as his other moves down her body.

Betty’s pupils are near black as he pulls her into his lap, her legs wrapped around him feels better than he imagined they would. When their lips meet for the first time, it’s in a move so gradual, so instinctual, that it feels inevitable. Tentative and soft, he tries to pour every ounce of gratitude and appreciation into her. He thinks briefly about how everyone says that _ fireworks _are the hallmark of a good kiss, but Jughead could not agree less. This isn’t fireworks; this is something that starts so much deeper. There’s definitely fire, but it rises slowly through his body like damp wood catching. He feels warmth building in parts of himself that have laid cold and dormant for so long, it’s glowing ember versus fully-fledged flame. Heat courses through him, molten like lava, as she slides her tongue past his lips. He groans, pulling her even closer, fingers sliding through her ponytail and pulling at the ends. The moan that escapes her brings him back to the present. 

He pulls away abruptly. “Do you really think I can do it? Get the scholarship?” She’s dazed, kissed breathless and by the twinge of her brow, confused. 

“That’s what you’re thinking about in the middle of our moment?”

He smiles, truly hopeful for the first time in longer than he can remember. “Baby, this is just one of many, many moments I plan on having with you.”


End file.
